Reassignment
by Lizard Pie
Summary: Both the upper and lower Canadian rebellions had failed, and they would stay in the empire.  The only thing left to do was learn their punishment.  IAMP OC's used.
1. Chapter 1

That he was in deep wasn't up for debate, it simply was. On some levels, he was worried. They'd already executed, pardoned, or expelled all the men who'd been a part of his rebellion, though. It wasn't like they could do much else without compromising the ability of his population to produce for the empire.

He knew that was what Mr. Kirkland chewed over now, but he'd been taking far too much time for it. There were widows to comfort, and women who may as well have been widows. Every minute he stood there, back straight and eyes firm, was a minute he wasn't somewhere far more critical.

Oliver didn't dare move, though.

The sun had set long before Mr. Kirkland finally walked over and stared into Oliver's eyes.

"Your eyes are lighter than they should be," he said. His words were slow and deliberate. "I should have known there was getting to be too much American in you. You're forgetting that you're British first."

He kept his eyes forward. "I never abandoned my loyalties. I was following orders to open my borders to new settlers, sir. I couldn't very well turn away the only ones who were interested." He paused, and then added, "Unless I was supposed to only accept the French…"

"Don't get smart," Mr. Kirkland snapped firmly. "You've been listening too much to this democracy nonsense."

Oliver stayed quiet because he couldn't deny it. This new governmental system was immature and rowdy, but it was intriguing. He listened to stories in taverns and peeked across the border, and it sounded much better than the Family. But that was a bad position to take when your job was to prove that democracy in itself was broken. As if the one who was supposed to be watching that was paying attention anymore, with the way the War of 1812 faded as repairs on DC finished up.

Someone had to feel the brunt of that, he supposed. Condemning his men to death and Australia wasn't enough.

"I suppose in some ways this is my fault," Mr. Kirkland said. "I left you unsupervised and surrounded by hooligans."

Oliver'd had support all around him. Alfred would buy him beer from across taverns, and Jean would offer a smile that was small enough to look accidental if you didn't know him. They wouldn't do more than that because they both considered him 'too English, still'. He didn't want to give up his British heritage, though, so he wasn't quite sure how he felt about them insisting on that 'still'.

"It might be easier to resist if I wasn't left destitute, sir," Oliver said. "The canals I was ordered to invest in didn't pay off as they were predicted to."

"Are you asking for help when you put yet another rebellion on my shoulders?" Mr. Kirkland snapped.

Truth be told, of all the recent rebellions, his had been the worst. He hadn't planned it out worth a damn, and had been quashed near immediately. But, for as insignificant as it'd appeared, the Empire was worried.

Oliver, in any other situation, would have known better than to push his luck for more funding. But as long as they were scared, the door was slivered open.

"I can't guarantee that people will go back to being quiet and productive, if they're worried about where their next meal will come from," Oliver said, in what he hoped sounded as regretful as it did professional.

Every second that ticked by was one where he should have been out with his people. They had wounds to lick, collectively, and a future to plan out. Women had lost husbands, children had lost fathers, they'd all lost land and hope. There was too much to be done, and yet Mr. Kirkland took his time and again chewed over the situation.

He would have pointed out his need to leave, but Oliver was quite sure that to be any more emboldened would be very bad for everyone.

Mr. Kirkland finally took a seat and drew up some papers. "So, you're asking for a restructuring and a funding increase?" He began to write. "That's going to keep your people satisfied?"

"I believe so, sir," he said. He attempted to neither look satisfied nor hopeful. It could ruin his chances.

"How is the situation in Lower Canada?" he asked.

"Steadier, sir, than mine," Oliver admitted. "He has a larger population, so he's able to handle setbacks more easily…"

"Setbacks like failed canals and rebellions?" he asked, flatly. He looked up briefly as he continued to write.

"Yes, sir."

"Then maybe we should just combine you two."

Oliver faltered. "Combine, sir?"

"You two seem to want the same sort of things. More stable economy, a change in government, increased protection… Having you would together would make that move so much faster, wouldn't it?"

He gave a tight-lipped smile, which Oliver was forced to return.

"Maybe you'll even be able to assimilate them, finally," Mr. Kirkland said. "Perhaps things will finally calm down around here if we can at least eliminate one bad influence." He looked over his newly written treaty.

"I'll do my best."

"Good lad," Mr. Kirkland said. "Rest up, tonight. I'll bring in Matthew and Jean tomorrow morning to cement this."

Oliver's jaw tightened, "Yes, sir." He turned to begin the long walk home, to work he should have already been on.

"Oh, and Oliver?"

He paused, and turned back around.

"I expected a lot more from you," he said. Mr. Kirkland's eyes were cold. "Don't disappoint me a second time."

Oliver took a deep breath. "I won't, sir."

He headed into the night, towards the people who needed him now more than ever before.

The camaraderie he'd enjoyed would dry up and join the dreams of forming a republic. The bit of common ground he'd found with Jean would be gone as soon as he found out, but it was already tenuous so that wasn't much of a loss.

He had too much to do, now, to think about anything that wasn't his job.


	2. Chapter 2

Jean knew that the inexplicable luck that the North American colonists had enjoyed was bound to run out at some point. The British army was far too experienced and powerful to bow to poorly-funded rebellions forever. It was just his luck to pick that particular point in time, he supposed.

Just because he'd been crushed, his rebels executed and his sympathizers driven out, didn't mean that there weren't reasons to be proud of himself. He'd driven the British back, and managed to get them nervous. Whether that was strictly his doing, or a compounding of a lot of other factors, Jean didn't know or particularly care. It'd been done, and he arrived at the office with his arm in a sling and armed guards at his flanks as if he were to receive an honor.

What he supposed he would loosely call his comrades were already in their seats by the time he'd arrived. Oliver seemed impatient to get the matter over with, Matthew fretted over every story about British rage he'd ever heard. They both, though, looked as if they'd spent most of the night pacing the floor, and most of the morning gulping down tea and coffee to cover that up.

Arthur, on the other hand, just looked annoyed. He tapped what had to be Durham's report against the desk. Jean smirked as he was forced into a chair he'd have taken anyway.

The translator, positioned at Jean's right, began to do his job shortly after Arthur did.

"I've read the reports I've been given," he said. "It seems I was mistaken, thinking that letting you handle your governments in the old style would keep you peaceful.. I suppose it was my fault for assuming you could be trusted."

Other than his translator, they remained silent.

Matthew steadily rang the hem of his suit coat with a sweaty palm. His people raged inside of him, torn between wanting to keep fighting and knowing it was time to fold. His French and English halves ran scared, now, but he had to sit as quietly as they did.

He seemed sick over it in ways that neither Jean nor Oliver could bring themselves to.

Oliver didn't show much of any reaction, besides masked annoyance. Jean had been shocked that this boy, adolescent in every sense of the word, could manage the balls to rebel against the Brits he clung to. That it had been an unspectacular effort paled in comparison to the fact that he'd actually stood up and agreed to join in.

Jean had managed respect for him that he hadn't anticipated. It wasn't much, but a significant amount for someone who represented much of what he was fighting against. Oliver had seemed rightfully shocked by it.

For just a child, though, he certainly knew when to shut his mouth and avoid eye contact. Like, for example, when the report left behind the political unrest to move into scapegoating the local French population.

"Just what in the hell did you tell them about me?" Jean snapped.

Oliver showed his hand that the translation wasn't necessary.

"Jean," Matthew said, his French quieter than normal. "I'm sure it wasn't him, you know the sorts of stories that get told by politicians…"

"Don't cover for him," Jean snapped. "He's just trying to save his skin, now."

When Arthur demanded something from Matthew, the translator didn't bother to convert it. The man was on Jean's payroll, but it was clear where his loyalties lay. Jean had to resign himself to the fact that he'd see a great deal more of that in the coming days.

Jean didn't fight it. He chose, instead, to listen to the racing English and watch Oliver count the minutes in his head. The people he'd shielded with lies were waiting for him, now, and all he needed was a final decision on what he'd saved them from.

As if, Jean was sure, he wasn't already aware. He looked a lot of things, but certainly not surprised as the translator started up again.

"Because of the monetary issues, in addition to the governmental ones," Arthur continued, irritably.

He put more force into his tone, Jean figured, because he couldn't believe he had to take control again in his own meeting. He should have learned better. No colony rolled over forever.

"It's become obvious that we need a complete restructuring."

The other two yes-sir'd like beaten children. Jean said nothing, but nobody seemed to expect him to.

"Since two separated Canada's didn't work, we're going to combine you both into one large province. It should be much easier to keep track of the finances and management if certain issues are taken out of the way. I'll do what I can to boost immigration for that, as well."

That Arthur didn't come right out and say he wanted the French influence in Canada to curl up and die showed remarkable restraint. He wanted this passed immediately; to push it through before any of them could read the fine print. Jean knew exactly what he was doing, of course. But, he reminded himself, he was in no real position to fight it.

There weren't many people left who were both willing and able, anymore.

There was another chorus of 'yes, sir', forced out since they had found themselves in the same boat as Jean.

Oliver still wouldn't look at anyone. He signed the paper when it was passed to him while his thumb, outside of his control, rubbed at the spot which would soon be covered by a wedding band. Jean was the only one who noticed, and strictly because he'd found himself doing the same.

Jean was the last to sign the papers, and just like that it was done. A ceremony date would be set to make this somehow more official than it actually was, but as far as anyone was concerned they were now united.

"We'll meet at the courthouse at 8 AM for the ceremony to announce this publically.

Oliver and Jean were dismissed, to allow Matthew to receive more orders and lectures on how this new province should be run.

Outside of the office, in clear but accented French, Oliver asked, "Do you have time to tell everyone you need to before tomorrow?"

Jean looked over at this boy who obviously on some level still believed that they were partners and equals. That he was destined for even half the punishment Jean was. He'd had his debts put onto Jean's shoulders to pay for a service of assimilating French into extinction, and he had the audacity to look at him like a partner.

It took everything Jean had in him not to throw a punch.

He needed to remain professional and mature about this, or else it'd crumble a second time and Lord knew where they'd end up. Assimilation could be fought, if people's wills were strong enough. More permanent, vicious, methods could not.

"I believe so," Jean said, finally. "If you'll excuse me, I have preparations to make."

His body felt different as he walked off, larger and yet somehow constrained. Oliver's stride was stilted, so he knew it, too.

Jean would dictate a letter to his sympathizers while he packed up the belongings he'd bring into the new home. He had to convince them that hope wasn't lost, even if what they hoped for had to be adjusted.

Quickly, though. There was a great deal to be done before morning.


End file.
